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Write My Name Across the Sky

Write My Name Across the Sky Summary

Write My Name Across the Sky: A Novel from the bestselling author of When We Believed in Mermaids returns with a tale of two generations of women reconciling family secrets and past regrets.

Life’s beautiful for seventysomething influencer Gloria Rose, in her Upper West Side loft with a rooftop garden and scores of Instagram followers—until she gets word that her old flame has been arrested for art theft and forgery, and, knowing her own involvement in his misdeeds decades earlier, decides to flee. But that plan is complicated when the nieces she raised are thrown into crises of their own.

Willow, overshadowed by her notorious singer-songwriter mother, has come home to lick her wounds on the heels of a failed album and yet another disastrous relationship. Sam, prickly and fiercely independent, is on the verge of losing not only her beloved video game company but the man she loves, thanks to her inability to keep her always-simmering anger in check.

With the FBI closing in, Willow’s career in shambles, and Sam’s tribulations reaching a peak, each of the three women will have to reckon with and reconcile their interwoven traumas, past loves, and the looming consequences that could either destroy their futures or bring them closer than ever.

About the Author

Barbara O’Neal is the bestselling author of fourteen novels of women’s fiction, including The Lost Girls of DevonWhen We Believed in MermaidsThe Art of Inheriting Secrets, and How to Bake a Perfect Life.

Her award-winning books have been published in more than a dozen countries, including France, Great Britain, Poland, Australia, Turkey, Italy, Germany, Israel, Croatia, Russia, and Brazil. She lives in the beautiful city of Colorado Springs with her beloved, a British endurance athlete who vows he’ll never lose his accent.

To learn more about Barbara and her works, visit her online at www.barbaraoneal.com.

Write My Name Across the Sky Introduction

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.


I am setting up a photo shoot when I hear the news that Isaak has been arrested. For a long moment, it doesn’t sink in. My body reacts ahead of my mind, warning me with a long ripple over my spine as I tweak the red shoes sitting beneath a lady’s slipper orchid in the soft green environment of the conservatory.

Then his name penetrates my brain. Isaak Margolis. I lift my head and look at the radio as if it will show me his long-lost face. My heart pauses, as if bracing to be shattered all over again, then starts up again with a hard thud.


All these years I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop. Now it falls like a meteor into my world, when I have finally relaxed into this rich, ordinary life filled with music and my Instagram photos and monthly luncheons at the Russian Tea Room with the dwindling numbers of former flight attendants I’ve known for more than fifty years.

I sink into a chair nearby the table, my legs too shaky to support me, and listen to the BBC announcer explain that the suspected art thief and forger was picked up by Interpol in Florence at the end of a decades-long search for missing works of art. The artworld is electrified because he was found with a Pissarro that’s been missing since before World War II.

All this time. All this time. For long moments, I allow panic and regret and longing to roar through my veins, emotion surging through me in ways I’d forgotten.

I think of Isaak’s hard, long face and lovely hands, think of our shared history—our mothers, who suffered both mundane and unimaginable tortures during the war; our desire to shake off that history and live unencumbered. I think of desire, the air crackling blue when we came within a few feet of each other.

I think of the very real possibility that I will spend the declining number of my days in prison.

I think of his body. His rough voice. The connection that bound us from the very first moments we met. So long ago, and yet, in a way, as recent as last night. Memory is strange that way.

I stand, take a calming breath.

And I wonder, How long do I have?


As I ride the train to Gloria’s on a rainy February evening, I am shivering in my flowered dress and thin jacket, clothes that worked in LA but are no good in this weather

. My neck is cold even beneath my hair, and I’m going to have to get a scarf. Not something in floaty silk but a real scarf, knitted and thick. I’m a little embarrassed to be so naively underdressed.

Not that I had much of a choice. I’m carrying everything I own.

My aunt Gloria called yesterday to ask me to house-sit while she jets away to the second home of one of her old TWA buddies. I’ve done it fairly often the past few years, watching over the apartment and her cats, but the job is really about the greenhouse on the roof and the hundreds of plants she’s nurtured for more than two decades.

It would be impossible to say how much of a relief her call was. My last gig finished with a whimper, and I’ve been couch surfing much too long, thanks to my asshole ex, who locked me out of his Malibu house after a big fight. When my album failed, he had no more use for me, which I should have expected, but it stung.

Now, I’m down to $549 in cash after buying my dinner at LAX last night and hiding in the back of a Panda Express to eat it, and to say I have my tail between my legs would be a major understatement. “Midnight Train to Georgia” has been running on a loop in my mind, Gladys Knight singing her mournful song about giving up. LA proved too much for me too.

Am I giving up? The thought gives me pain beneath my ribs, but to be honest, I’m thirty-five. How much longer can I possibly live the life of an itinerant musician? By now, I thought I’d be rocketing across the heavens as my mother did. I really believed it, and that’s as embarrassing as the failure itself.

Not a failure, says the eternal cheerleader in my head. Just a setback.

Whatever. It’s getting harder and harder to believe her. The evidence is pretty overwhelming in the opposite direction.

The train stops, and I feel a rush of relief at the familiar sight of the subway tiles looking faintly green in the fluorescent light. People get off. People get on.

A blonde teenager with a startling anime tattoo across her neck; a woman in a blue hijab holding the hand of an impish toddler; a remarkably tall, bald white man wearing a bowler hat; a pair of weary-looking middle-aged Latinas with shopping bags on their laps.

It feels right. Welcoming. Nothing could say home more than this mix of people. LA is a wild blend, too, but everybody is so spread out you’re working with a patchwork quilt more than a stew.

Relief runs up my spine, and I relax my hold a bit on the Johnny Was bag on my lap, a tote I bought when the album first came out, a celebration of success.

The embroidered bag is now packed to the brim with my earthly goods. I am wearing the handmade cowboy boots that once belonged to my mother and have now become my trademark. I wish I had some leggings, but I forgot how cold the February rain would be. The mark of an outlander, a tourist. I am neither.

At the subway station at 72nd and Broadway, I get off and climb the stairs to greet the pouring rain. That, too, feels like home. Sometimes the sunshine in California can start to feel oppressive. Huddling in my cloth coat, rain dripping down the back of my dress, I hold my violin case close to my chest and hurry home to what is, in summer, one of the prettiest streets in the neighborhood. By the time I reach the six-story prewar building, I’m soaked clear through.

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Write My Name Across the Sky

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Product details:

EditionKindle Edition
Posted onAugust 10, 2021
Page Count361 pages
AuthorBarbara O’Neal

Write My Name Across the Sky PDF Free - HUB PDF

Write My Name Across the Sky: A Novel from the bestselling author of When We Believed in Mermaids returns with a tale of two generations of women reconciling family secrets and past regrets.

URL: https://amzn.to/3megMMT

Author: Barbara O’Neal

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